Walking Her Home
by rbs89
Summary: North and South fanfiction. Follows BBC miniseries. ONE-SHOT. Set after the train ride, before arriving at Marlborough Mill. What were John and Margaret's thoughts as they began their life together?


**Walking her home**

"_**You're coming home with me"**_

He never thought he would thank Henry Lennox for anything- well, short from knocking some sense into his smirking face- he never, till this day, cared to see him again.

It had been a mere 4 hours since his eternal happiness had been indefinitely secured. As Margaret sat next to him asleep, scandalously leaning on his shoulders, he first thought not of their turbulent past, but his aspirations for the future.

A warm, inviting home to come back to every night.

A family with both parents.

Everything he hadn't had growing up.

His house at Marlborough Mills was a cavernous creation of his mother, who had spent so many years raising her family to the standards of the most respectable in Milton. She was a proud sort of woman; righteously so. Although John loved his mother, he was disappointed that she disliked his beloved so much. Even at his worst, he had not stopped loving her, even when she was in the embrace with an unknown man- _her brother_- he was resolved in living with his love unrequited although his bruised pride convinced him that he should appear indifferent to her.

He had been tired of the simpering, pretentious _ladies_ that were paraded around him like sheep following a shepherd. There was no spirit in them, like he had found in Margaret, who passionately defended what she believed. Anne Latimer was too much like Fanny, perhaps a bit more sedate- but nonetheless caught up in fashionable airs which was a more vulgar version of what he saw in London when he went to the Great Exhibition.

It was well into the evening when the train slowly approached Milton. The 'unparliamentary' smoke and cloud was well hidden in the moonless night sky. The scent of grass was slightly stronger in the night than it was in the day- the mills that littered the town where still, thus allowing the smoky smell to dilute in the breeze. Although this was what he had once considered home, the hunched and silent form leaning on him was now what he considered as home- _where the heart is_.

It was only when he was gently shaking that he thinks of the immediate future- the whispers that would arise from housing an unmarried woman- his betrothed- in his home. But he was above gossip- and was resolved not to do anything that would not cross the bounds of propriety- he would invite his sister Fanny to stay, and arrange for a quick marriage in the local church the next day- unless Margaret wanted a London wedding, which he doubted she wanted and would have only agreed to if she had been bullied by her mother's old maid and her relations in town.

With a solution to at least one problem, he pushed other problems out of his mind, and he picked up her bag in one hand and her hand in the other. However, he thought, her relations must be sent an express in the morning at least, in order for her possessions to be brought to his- their- home.

Margaret looked into John's eyes and smiled shyly. A fine blush sprinkled her cheeks as she saw the distinct facial features of Mr Thornton- John- in the shadow, his vibrant green eyes flickering with love. The day- this afternoon- had been a dream. She had almost lost the chance (and courage) to tell John that she did in fact love him, and hoped that despite his remark of his foolish passion ending, he still held her in tender regard. However, even if she had lost her courage to speak from her heart, she would have spoken about business. And now she was returning to Darkshire, to Milton, where she had seen so much death and lost hope, to start a new life of love and fulfilled dreams.

Perhaps she was not at Helstone, where she had always dreamed of getting married; she had become disillusioned after her trip with the late Mr Bell. Instead of the stroll from the parsonage, she envisioned herself saying the sacred vows in front of a minister with the one she loved. Her mother and father were no longer with her, and she knew her Aunt Shaw and Edith wouldn't approve of any match, save Henry Lennox. No, the only one she wanted present was John, as the bridegroom.

They walked off the platform; the streets quiet. Raucous laughter could be heard from public rooms, however the couple were oblivious. The streets where empty and dirty, no sign of poverty which was ingrained in Margaret's memory. Her thoughts momentarily jumped to Bessie. She would have to remember to visit the cemetery to pay her respect to her. And her mother. Poor Dixon still mourned for her mistress, but would most probably stay in London. Margaret didn't mind. She had no use for an old maid who despised what she had loved, did love. She thought of Mrs Thornton and Dixon arguing over how the house should be run; where there was a distinct difference between the family and the servants. Dixon had never been happy in Milton, particularly after Mrs Hale had died, and she deserved to stay in Town as reward to her dedication to her mother, thought Margaret.

John reflected on his mother's reaction when she would undoubtedly greet them at the front door of their home- it was supposed to be their last night there before moving to Crampton, in a home not unlike that inhabited by the Hales when they resided there. Indeed, all the homes in the area were of similar design, as if there was a single template which had been copied- he knew it was the quickest way to build a large number of houses in a set period of time. It was perhaps less luxurious than their current house, but it wasn't as insalubrious as the rooms he had lived in with his mother and an infant Fanny when his father had first died and creditors had stripped them of all their earthly possessions in order to recover as much of their money as possible.

The two walked so slowly that anyone who cared to look out the window may have thought that the couple were lost. Their second thought would have been that the two were perhaps newlyweds or lovers at least, for as they walked and talked, their heads were bent, as if speaking very softly. Her clothes were well made from expensive material in a fashionable cut; dressed like a fine lady. He on the other hand was dressed much less politely- his jacket hanging from his shoulder, his cravat missing and the top buttons of his shirt undone. Observers would not have been able to recognise the proud and upstanding citizen, Mr John Thornton, as his gait was relaxed, a smile gracing his usually stern face.

Unconsciously grasping each others hands more tightly, they past through the gate into the empty courtyard, memories of their last parting here rang through their memory. His broken voice begging her to "_look back at me"_, thinking that he'd never see her again, hear her impertinent voice, live with the possibility that she might come to him for help. She remembered the broken man, not wanting to believe that she would disappear from Milton, from him. It had been an easy enough chore to complete at the time, but upon reflection in London, when she was quite at leisure to do as she pleased, Margaret looked into her heart to explain the nagging feeling of loss she felt, and it was that last memory which made her realise her deep attachment- love- to John.

Since her father's death, Margaret felt acutely the loss of a home. Her time in London with the Lennox's and Aunt Shaw had been a comfortable respite, but she felt purposeless- merely a wealthy woman of idleness, obliged to do as others wished. Her thoughts often wondered to Milton- to Nicholas Higgins, Mary, little Tom Boucher, and of course Mr Thornton. There people had listened to what she had to say, and not dismiss her like a disobedient, headstrong child. She then thought of what Mrs Thornton had told her earlier that day, and wondered if she was ready to see her again in much more improper circumstances- to sleep under the same roof as her betrothed. She didn't care for her reputation, but Mrs Thornton would, especially as John's soon-to-be wife. Perhaps, one day, if they became closer, she would confide in her about Fred. And John needed to know about Fred as well, especially as she continued in assisting him in the future. But she was content right now, with John, holding his hand.

"We're home."

Hearing these words made their spine tingle. Home wasn't the place where they slept, bathed and ate. It was where their hearts were most content.


End file.
